I suspected both explanations were true for Diesel, and neither of them was true for me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Glo bustled into the bakery exactly at nine o’clock. She had a newspaper in her tote bag and Broom stuck under her arm.
“Did you see the paper?” she asked Clara and me. “The explosion made the front page. And it was on the news this morning on television.”
Clara stopped working and looked at Glo. “You read the paper and listen to the news?”
“No. I ran into Mr. Bork on the street, and he told me about the explosion story, so I bought a paper.” She pulled the paper out of her bag and laid it on a workbench. “There are pictures and everything. They said it was some kind of homemade bomb that had been set on a timer. Nobody was hurt, but there was a lot of damage.”
Clara and I went to the workbench and looked at the pictures. I was relieved to find I wasn’t in any of them.
“You should have been there,” Glo said to Clara. “We were in Devereaux’s office, and Josh called him, and Devereaux told us to get out of the building, so we ran out, and BOOM! Devereaux’s office exploded. And then Josh got a phone call from Devereaux except he couldn’t hear what he was saying.”
“Scary,” Clara said. “It would have been terrible if you hadn’t gotten out of the office in time.”
“Who do you think would bomb an office?” Glo asked.
The same person who just bought my cookbook, I thought. My phone chirped, and I checked my text messages.
“What’s wrong?” Clara asked. “You look like someone just died.”
“It’s a text from Martin Ammon reminding me that I’m supposed to cater a party at his house on Saturday. I’d completely forgotten about it.”
“Do you need help with the party?”
“Yes!”
An hour later I took off for the Wednesday farmers’ market on Pleasant Street. We use local produce whenever we can, and this morning I bought apples for turnovers, herbs and onions for the meat pies, and I got a bargain on raspberries. I arranged for delivery, and on my way back to the bakery a hand grasped my shoulder from behind, and I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my butt cheek. I whirled around and saw Hatchet with a needle in his hand.
“Surprise,” he said.
—
When I regained consciousness I was stretched out on a deck chair on a large yacht. The Salem waterfront was visible in the distance. Hatchet was at the rail. Wulf was seated at a small table nearby laid out with fresh fruit, croissants, and coffee.
“I trust you’re well,” Wulf said. “Hatchet is an expert on paralytic poisons. You should have no ill effects from your nap. I’m having a late breakfast. Would you like to join me?”
“Just coffee. And I’d like to know the reason for the drugging and kidnapping.”
Wulf snapped his fingers and Hatchet rushed over, poured a cup of coffee, and handed it to me.
“Cream or sugar?” Hatchet asked.
I shook my head no.
“I asked Steven to escort you to my boat,” Wulf said. “The method was his choice.”
“He gave me a needle in the butt.”
“Thee were moving,” Hatchet said. “Hatchet needed a large target.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “How’d you like me to punch you in the face?”
“Thou art an impertinent shrew,” Hatchet said.
Wulf cut his eyes to Hatchet, and Hatchet shrank back into the shadows of the salon entrance.